The Witness for the Dead

by Katherine Addison

  “Mer Sheveldar must be very deft,” Ulzhavar said. “Or perhaps he was in the habit of bringing his wife a hot drink at bedtime, and she never thought to mention it to you. She must not have been suspicious at all.”

  “She was very much in love,” said Darnevin. “She would never have believed it of him.”

  “But you do,” I said.

  “I don’t know how he did it,” said Darnevin, “but if he is in truth this man you are hunting, I admit it does not surprise me.”

  “She was seventeen,” said Ulzhavar. “Was he much older?”

  “He might have been twenty. Not more.”

  “So this might have been his first,” said Ulzhavar.

  “Was there any money?” I said. “Did he gain anything by her death?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Darnevin. “She was a manufactory worker, so there can’t have been much money between them.”

  “This was his first,” I said. “He killed her because he wanted to. He figured out it could be profitable later.”

  “How horrible,” said Darnevin.

  “But probably accurate,” said Ulzhavar. “And thus Broset Sheveldar might be his real name.”

  I understood at once what he meant. “Do you know a maza who can do that?”

  “As it happens,” said Ulzhavar, “I do.”

  * * *

  The maza was an elderly elven man named Lenet, and he and Ulzhavar were clearly friends of long standing. He listened to our convoluted story attentively and said, “Well, it is certainly worth trying.”

  Among the arcana of the mazei, the specialty of name-magic was particularly arcane. Lenet Athmaza wrote the name “Broset Sheveldar” on a slip of paper the length and width of my little finger, folded it, and put it in a filigree silver ball on a long silver chain.

  He spread out a beautiful map of the city of Amalo, each district neatly labeled, then began swinging the silver ball back and forth over the map, murmuring under his breath. Little by little, the arc of the ball changed and narrowed, until finally it was perfectly still over the district of Penchelivor.

  “So,” said Lenet Athmaza. “From here we must walk.”

  * * *

  Penchelivor was south of the Zheimela, a quiet, law-abiding district full of artisans and legal clerks and manufactory managers. Lenet Athmaza and Ulzhavar and I made a strange trio amid all that respectability, Lenet Athmaza in his blue robe, swinging that little silver ball on its chain; Ulzhavar with his green robe kilted up as usual to allow him freedom of movement; and me in my black coat of office and my hair escaping from its braid. People stared politely, sidelong—and I reminded myself that Broset Sheveldar could have no idea that we were hunting him.

  I said, “Do you believe the Vigilant Brotherhood will listen to us when we have found him?”

  Ulzhavar laughed. “They’ll listen. Whether they believe or not is a different story, but they will listen to a maza. Once the gentleman is in jail, we can assemble a great many witnesses to identify him, whether as Sheveldar, Michezar, or Avelonar. And we should exhume poor Merrem Sheveldaran, though I have no doubt what we’ll find.”

  “Best to be thorough,” Lenet Athmaza agreed.

  “Yes,” said Ulzhavar. “But I want this vanishing gentleman in a place where I know he’s not wooing another wife.”

  “Or poisoning her,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Ulzhavar.

  The trouble, we found, with the dowsing ball was that it wanted to move in straight lines and the streets of Penchelivor twisted and forked and dead-ended, so that it took us a disproportionately long time, given that Lenet Athmaza knew exactly where we were going, to get there. It turned out to be a boardinghouse, flying the green-and-silver banner and with a boldly lettered ROOMS TO LET sign in one front window.

  “We should have brought Othalo Darnevin,” I said, realizing. “None of us knows what he looks like, and we don’t know what name he’s using.”

  “I will know him,” Lenet Athmaza said.

  “Yes, but we don’t want to confront him,” I said, then realized how nervous I sounded, although I was quite certain we had nothing to fear from a man who worked by poison. “And we’ve no idea where the Penchelivor watchhouse is.”

  “These are all surmountable problems,” Ulzhavar said. “Let’s walk on before we make anyone in that boardinghouse nervous, and we can work out a plan.”

  “Your excursions are always interesting, Ulzhavar,” said Lenet Athmaza, “but seldom very well thought out.”

  * * *

  After discussion, we all took the tram to General Parzhadar Square and the one member of the Vigilant Brotherhood who I knew would listen to our outlandish story and might allow himself to be persuaded by it. After all, he had told me he would arrest the murderer if I could find him.

  Azhanharad listened carefully to our story. At the end, he said, “If we understand correctly, the only thing you can prove is that this man is Broset Sheveldar, which so far as we know right now he isn’t denying.”

  Put like that, the entire thing sounded like a nightmare Ulzhavar and I had dreamed up between us.

  Ulzhavar said, “We have witnesses who can also identify him as Segevis Michezar and Croïs Avelonar. We can prove that Merrem Michezaran and Min Urmenezhen died of calonvar poisoning. And we expect we can prove the same thing for Merrem Sheveldar, if we can find her grave. And the one thing the three of them have in common is Mer Sheveldar. We think he merits a judicial examination.”

  I did not think Azhanharad entirely believed us, but he knew the remit of his brotherhood, and he had no desire to offend Ulzhavar, who outranked him much as a star outranks a streetlight. “All right, dach’othala. We will come arrest Broset Sheveldar for being Broset Sheveldar.”

  “It will do,” said Ulzhavar. “The rest will come quickly enough.”

  * * *

  We returned to the boardinghouse: Ulzhavar, Lenet Athmaza, and I, accompanied by Azhanharad and two watchmen, both of them half goblins built like brick walls. Clearly Azhanharad believed enough not to want to take chances.

  Azhanharad sent one of his men around to the back of the boardinghouse, in case our quarry tried to escape that way. The rest of us clattered up onto the porch, and Ulzhavar was about to knock when the door was opened by a middle-aged half-goblin woman who was at a guess the landlady.

  “Good afternoon,” said Ulzhavar. “I am Csenaia Ulzhavar, and I am looking for a man named Broset Sheveldar. I have reason to believe he lives here.”

  “No, othala,” she said in a strong Barizheise accent. “No one by that name among my boarders.”

  “It’s possible,” said Ulzhavar, “that he is using another name.”

  She had taken in the sight of Azhanharad and the watchmen. “Is he a criminal? I don’t want anything like that in my house.”

  Ulzhavar considered her for a moment, either genuinely debating whether she could be trusted with the truth, or pretending to, before saying, “He is a murderer.”

  She made a warding gesture and said, “Then I hope you catch him. The only one of my boarders who is home is Mer Nilenovar. I will fetch him.”

  “You’re sure he’s here,” Azhanharad said to Lenet Athmaza.

  “If he weren’t, we wouldn’t be here, either.”

  The landlady returned with an elven man, young, slightly built, with his hair in a single, sober bun. He was good-looking, though not dramatically so, and did not look like a murderer, as murderers generally did not.

  “May I help you gentlemen?” he said politely.

  “That’s the man,” Lenet Athmaza said.

  “Is your name Broset Sheveldar?” said Ulzhavar, and we all saw the name hit him like a blow.

  But he stood his ground. “No, I’m sorry, you gentlemen must have—”

  “No?” said Ulzhavar. “How about Segevis Michezar? Or Croïs Avelonar?”

  “How many men do you think I am?” he said, still trying to deflect.

  “That de
pends,” said Ulzhavar. “How many men have you been?”

  Sheveldar took a step back, turning, and Azhanharad said, “You’ll run straight into one of my men at the back door.”

  For a moment, it looked as though he was going to try it anyway; then his shoulders slumped and he said, “I suppose you’re here to arrest me.”

  “On suspicion of murdering Min Inshiran Urmenezhen,” said Azhanharad, “and at least two other women.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t prove it.” But he allowed Azhanharad to shackle his wrists.

  “Mer Nilenovar,” said the landlady, “what should I tell Min Tavalin?”

  “You might as well tell her the truth,” he said.

  But what kept me from sleeping that night was the casual evidence that he’d already started again, that in arresting him we were almost certainly saving Min Tavalin’s life.

  I lay awake wondering how many brides Broset Sheveldar had had, how many women we hadn’t been fast enough to save.

  * * *

  The next day, Chonhadrin came to the Prince Zhaicava Building to find me.

  “I don’t have a petition,” she said. “Are you going to throw me out?”

  “No,” I said. “Not unless a petitioner shows up, and I doubt they will.”

  “Your job seems miserable,” she said frankly.

  “It is not,” I said, “although I understand why you say so. I get a few petitioners a week, sometimes several, and in the meantime, I have plenty of reading material.”

  I nodded at my row of novels, and she laughed.

  “But you must have come to find me for a reason.”

  “I wrote to both my grandfathers,” she said, “and I have received letters back. My grandfather Delenar is horrified that I have found out the family scandal, so I must write back to him and assure him again that I am not angry. It would have ruined my mother’s life, but it has little meaning for mine.” She shrugged her shoulders, like a woman shrugging off a heavy coat. “I am ashenin, and no one cares if my grandparents were married.”

  “And Osmer Thilmerezh?”

  “My grandfather Thilmerezh,” said Chonhadrin, “missed his calling as a novelist. He has written me pages about Tanvero and the people there. He told me all about the ghoul.”

  “Um,” I said, and she laughed.

  “Your ears tell me you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I don’t,” I said, “but if you have a question, I will try to answer it.”

  “How likely do you think it that another ghoul will rise in Tanvero?”

  “It depends,” I said. “If they organize themselves to tend their cemeteries, it’s unlikely. Did he say if they found Merrem Balamaran’s grave? Her original grave, I mean?”

  “They did. He says it wasn’t even in a cemetery, just a clearing in the woods.”

  “Vikhelneise. They don’t believe cemeteries are necessary.”

  “I don’t think I understand Vikhelno’s teachings at all,” said Chonhadrin.

  “He was a goblin,” I said, “and lived far to the south, where ghouls do not rise. And he was quite legitimately angry at the corruption that had crept into the Barizheise priesthood, particularly among the prelates of Ulis. But he came to see priests, all priests, as a kind of excrescence, both unnecessary and harmful. When the goblins came north in the gold rush, they brought his teachings with them, and there are apparently a lot of people who would like to do without priests altogether.”

  “But how can they think ghouls don’t exist?” she said, almost plaintively.

  “I can’t explain belief,” I said. “I can’t explain why anyone listened to Vikhelno, except that they, too, were angry at their priests. And once you decide your priests are parasites and their teachings are worthless … the Vikhelneisei are proud of not believing in anything that they haven’t seen themselves.”

  “They aren’t atheists, are they?” she asked, almost whispering.

  “No, Vikhelno didn’t go that far. He was quite clear that the work of the gods is visible all around us every day. But anything that was a reason you might need a priest, he dismissed as so much pernicious falsehood. He said that corn mazes should be uprooted and that pilgrimages were ridiculous. And of course he didn’t believe in ghouls. Most people don’t, south of Veshto.”

  “And I suppose that once you actually see a ghoul, it’s too late to change your beliefs.”

  “Mostly they’re very slow-moving, and it takes them several months to go from eating the dead to eating the living. So, assuming you were alert, you’d have time to rethink your philosophy.”

  “How many people did the ghoul in Tanvero kill?”

  “Two that I know of—unless Osmer Thilmerezh says they found more bodies.”

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then probably those two were its only victims.”

  “They didn’t have time to rethink.”

  “I think that ghoul had been risen too long. It had gotten faster and more cunning than they usually do. Certainly far faster than any of the other ghouls I have quieted.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Five,” I said, “and a sixth that we caught as it clawed its way out of its grave.”

  “Where?” she said, eyes wide.

  “Well west of here,” I said. “A town called Aveio, where the population had been shrinking for generations, so that they had more people in their cemeteries than they did in the town. And the stone they had for headstones was too soft. It wouldn’t hold a name properly.”

  “How horrible.”

  “I do not miss Aveio,” I admitted.

  She nodded, then briskly changed the subject. “But what I wanted to ask is, do you think it’s safe to travel to Tanvero? My grandfather Thilmerezh has invited me to visit him.”

  I could not help my eyebrows going up. “Even for an ashenin, that is a long journey to make alone.”

  “That doesn’t bother me,” she said. “And my grandfather has a housekeeper, Merrem Olharad, so there is nothing improper in my visiting him.”

  “But you are worried about ghouls.”

  “I am concerned,” she said, a little stiffly.

  “I do not think you need to worry,” I said. “The new cemetery caretaker seems most conscientious, and I believe the citizens will be taking other measures to ensure the cemeteries are maintained. Tanvero should be as safe as anywhere else.”

  “That is a relief. Thank you, Celehar.”

  “I hope you will give Osmer Thilmerezh my greetings,” I said.

  “Of course. He spoke very highly of you in his letter—he said the othas’ala wanted you to stay.”

  “He did. But Tanvero is not my calling, and Othas’ala Deprena was … mistaken in his assessment.”

  “Your judgment of yourself is very harsh.”

  “No, just honest. Othas’ala Deprena needs a prelate with skills I do not have. I am much better suited to this office and the people of Amalo.”

  “If you think you are suited to this office,” she said, with a wave of her hand indicating our surroundings, “then your judgment of yourself is harsh indeed.”

  She surprised me into laughing. “No, no one is suited to this office. But the work that I do in Amalo is rewarding to me and makes full and proper use of the skills I have.” I almost said, I would rather talk to the dead than to the living, but bit it back in time.

  Chonhadrin looked as though she had heard my thought. She said hesitantly, “May I come tell you about my visit when I return? No one else will understand or care.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I would be very pleased.” And it was even the truth.

  * * *

  I received a note from Dach’othala Vernezar, asking me to meet him at the shrine in the catacombs. Although I had denied that he had any authority over me, it seemed both imprudent and spiteful to refuse. This time I went alone.

  Vernezar was also alone, although I was sure there was at least a novice w
aiting for him somewhere just out of earshot. “Othala Celehar,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Dach’othala,” I said.

  “We, ah, we trust that you were not … that is, we hope you will not … We bear you no ill will, Celehar, and we hope that you bear us none.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Good, good,” Vernezar said, not meeting my eyes. “It’s only natural that there should be some confusion. After all, there’s never been a post quite like yours—appointed directly by the Archprelate—before.”

  “No,” I agreed.

  “And we would hate to think that any such confusion should be misinterpreted as … as anger. Or hostility.”

  “We did not make that interpretation,” I said warily. There had been no interpretation necessary.

  “Othalo Zanarin is…” He hesitated for long enough that I began to think he would be unable to continue. Finally, he said, “Intemperate. We have suggested to her that perhaps she needs to spend a season in isolate devotion in the Chapel of Floods.”

  Hypocrisy, from a man like Vernezar, but Zanarin’s reach had exceeded her grasp, and retaliation was inevitable. Power was a dangerous game. And I had to admit I felt a surge of relief, that at least for a season, I would not need to worry about encountering Zanarin, either in the Amalomeire or simply on the streets.

  I said, “It is very cold in the Mervarnens in winter.”

  “Isolate devotion is not a punishment. We have told her to wait until spring.”

  Isolate devotion was exactly a punishment—except for those few who were called to it—but I had no desire to argue with the Ulisothala of Amalo about that or anything else. I said nothing.

  “In any event,” said Vernezar, “we hope for nothing but peaceful relations with your, ah, office.”

  As if I were a foreign country. I said, “There is no reason for anything else.”

  “Very good,” said Vernezar. “And you won’t…” He eyed me sidelong.

  Here was the matter he actually wanted to discuss with me. A pity that I had no idea what it was.